Elves in Love
by Evandar
Summary: Series of oneshots written for the Hobbit Kink Meme. Sometimes the divide between Elves and Dwarves is smaller than they want to believe. These are some of the Elves who bridged it, and some others who nearly did.
1. Snapshots

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of Tolkien's works or characters and am making no profit from this story.

**AN:** This was written for a prompt on the Hobbit Kink Meme which asked for 'Elves hopelessly in love with Dwarves'. I may or may not have taken the 'hopelessly' part a bit too far at times. Beware, though, there are minor spoilers for _Desolation of Smaug_ and some characters down at the end who feature in _The Silmarillion_.

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Elves in Love:

Snapshots

by Evandar

**1.**

His Dwarf is one of the quieter ones. He has a cocky swagger and an insolent smirk, but he keeps his thoughts to himself and a watchful eye on the younger, dark-haired Dwarf who never leaves his side.

He is not, strictly speaking, 'his' Dwarf. Glorfindel has not spoken to him, nor has the Dwarf given any sign that he has realised he and his companion are being watched. They are calm, relaxed, and the younger one's laughter fills the air. His Dwarf – Glorfindel is not sure of his name, so that will have to do – has a softer chuckle, low and rich. Glorfindel imagines that it would taste, if laughter can have a taste, like the pipeweed his Dwarf so eagerly smokes.

Laughter should have a taste, he decides. After all, fear does and war and death. (He knows well the taste of death.) His Dwarf's pipeweed would be an excellent flavour for it, especially since his Dwarf seems so adept at eliciting it from his fellows. All it takes is a sarcastic quip or comment, and his companions (especially the young, dark one) all fall about hysterically, while he stands above them all, chuckling lightly and enjoying their good humour.

But while he may play the clown at times, it is not all he is. It's something Glorfindel knows well – the joker-warrior, who hides his familiarity with battle behind merry songs and jests. He has to date counted twelve weapons hidden on his Dwarf's small frame, and he does not doubt that they are tended to and wielded with skill. It is possible that there may even be more, hidden beneath his thick, fur-lined coat and tucked into his boots and tunics, but if there are then even Glorfindel's sharp eyes cannot spy them from this distance.

Unfortunately, it is a distance he must keep. The Company of Thorin Oakenshield are a prickly bunch when it comes to outsiders, and no matter how innocent his intentions – a conversation, a name, perhaps a kiss to feel if moustaches felt as odd as they looked like would be – he would not be welcome amongst them, and it was not his place to upset the guests of Lord Elrond. Instead he must gaze from a distance upon hair as golden as his own and eyes that watch carefully even as his mouth draws more laughter from his fellows.

It is nothing more than curiosity, he tells himself, as he strains his ears for the next quip. There is never anything more pleasant than that between an Elf and a Dwarf.

**2.**

She hasn't seen many Dwarves in her life. Of course, she knows that they used to live in the mountain, and that they fled their homeland. She even saw a few on the occasions that she ventured to Dale…but there weren't very many occasions where she got to venture that far. Mirkwood is a sheltered kingdom, and her King keeps his people close and well-protected.

She hasn't seen many Dwarves in her life, but even so, she knows that this one is special. He's taller than the rest and with barely any beard to speak of. It seems that under all the hair and the armour, Dwarves are a beautiful race – and an eloquent one. As he speaks, he fills her mind with images of a red moon hanging low over a mountain pass, almost close enough to reach out and touch. There's a light of wonder in his eyes at just the thought of the memory he possesses, and that is beautiful in its own right.

He is loved, this Dwarf. Tauriel rubs her thumb over the runes cut into his talisman. What they say, she does not know, but the talisman speaks of love and hope and that too is beautiful. She looks beyond his nervous smile when he speaks, and she hears moments of supressed laughter – the stories he isn't telling. When she passes his talisman back to him through the bars, she sees relief and joy in his eyes, and the gratitude in his smile is blinding.

His fingers brush hers. They're thick and callused and they linger just a heartbeat too long for it to be entirely innocent, and for that heartbeat Tauriel can see a red moon above a mountain pass, and stars as bright as fire.

**3.**

He was offered gems as white as starlight, of a purity that could not be matched by any realm left on this earth, and then refused them. Similarly, the true treasure of Erebor has been denied him: Thorin, son of Thrain, Prince Under the Mountain and fairest of all the Dwarves left in Arda.

Or so Thranduil has been told. He cannot see more than vague shapes and colours, and has not been able to since the War of Wrath where Ancalagon the Black unleashed dragon-fire upon the few warriors of Doriath who had chosen to stay West of the mountains. But even though the great dragon took his sight, it did not take his hearing. There is thunder in the voice of Thorin Oakenshield, and power. The power to persuade and to woo, to command armies and inspire suicidal attempts to steal from a dragon in its lair.

There is love as well, under his bitter words. Love for his people. It is not Thror who denies treasure this time, but Thorin – he denies himself and Thranduil knows even as he sheds his glamour and reveals his true face that he will not win. Thorin will go to madness and ruin and the Dwarves will lose him. They will lose their Mountain King. The forges of Erebor will not be relit; their halls will not ring with laughter and hammer-strikes. Silver fountains will spring no more, and star-white gems will be lost forever.

And Thorin's voice will ever remain an echo of anger and betrayal in Thranduil's mind.

**4.**

The toymaker with the silly moustaches and the wide smile that can light up a room without ever reaching his eyes is in town again. The Dwarves have learned their lesson from the death of Thorin Oakenshield and have started to trade freely in the city of Dale again, even though it is still being rebuilt. Part of the stone for that comes from the rubble left in the mountain by Smaug, and Dwarf-carvings, bold and square, can be seen on many of the new buildings being raised.

The toymaker is a common sight. He finds delight in the children who find delight in his toys. He laughs and jokes with children and parents alike, and only the sighs he makes when they turn away give hint of his sadness. There are no children yet in Erebor, and if he wishes to make a wage then the toymaker must come here. But…Elros doesn't think that's the only reason.

He recognises this Dwarf. Not just from his earlier visits to the city on behalf of his King, but from before then. This Dwarf was one of Thorin Oakenshield's companions. He was one of the ones who escaped when Galion convinced him to renege on his duties – and ah! His ears still ring from that scolding – in favour of wine.

It is not only the lack of children he mourns, but those of his Company lost forever in the Battle of Five Armies. It is a sadness Elros feels as well, for many of his own friends fell in that battle, and perhaps that is what makes him approach. The Dwarf eyes him warily, but with no recognition. That is something, at least; his mistrust is one he shows for Elves in general.

Carefully, Elros plucks a wooden doe from the stand. It is excellently carved, displaying a care and gentleness that he hadn't thought the thick hands of Dwarves capable of. Its slender neck is jointed at the base, and by pressing a small button on her flank he can make her graze upon the palm of his hand.

He suspects that the Dwarf overcharges him when he asks her worth, but he places his coins into a callused hand without complaint. He lets himself linger a little, to feel the warmth and the fire that he knows lives within the being looking at him so coldly, before he backs away and nods his head in thanks. And if, over the following years, he buys enough wooden deer to populate a forest, then that is his business.

**5.**

That so short a space of time can bring so miraculous a change in outlook makes Legolas wonder if any of his people have actually tried to see Dwarves as they truly are before. True, Gandalf told them all that the Elves of Eregion and the Dwarves of Moria had an accord, but that was an Age past with no trace of that friendship remaining beyond a now shattered door. Had they all been so blinded by coarse beards (that weren't really as coarse as they looked, he'd come to learn) and gruff manners that they couldn't see the wonders beneath

Had he been that blind? Truly?

Ai, but he had, and a mere sixty years past at that – and with Gimli's own father in the Company he had arrested. And though Gimli claimed to have forgiven him his actions then, they had still spent a good six months dancing around the subject ere they arrived in Lorien and found comfort in one another's company.

"What's past is past," Gimli has told him, and Legolas can see reason enough in that. They have a present to focus on – one filled with days of travel and nights of lovemaking, and beyond that a future. A brief, mortal future, but one that will burn as brightly as mortal lives were wont to; one that Legolas has decided to cherish for as long as he is able, until the sea has dulled his pains or he fades from grief.

His thoughts often turn maudlin in the night, these days. He wonders now if this is what Tauriel saw in Prince Kili; if it will hurt to die or if, by that point, he will welcome it. He wonders how Gimli, in whose arms he lies, will die. Old age or sickness? A mining accident? A cave-in in one of those confounded labyrinths he plans to build in Aglarond? How long will it take, after he is gone, for the grief to set in and destroy Legolas utterly.

He is not used to contemplating his own death, or that of others, yet now it comes to him as easily as stringing an arrow to his bow.

He curls closer to Gimli's warmth and rests his head on his lover's broad chest. He will comfort himself with the sound of Gimli's heartbeat for the rest of the night, and he will dread its ceasing with each passing second.

**Bonus:**

He watches as Narvi leans in to study his plans for the door and studies the way that the young Dwarf's hair catches the light. Such a rich chestnut deserves to be decorated, he thinks, with threads of gold and emeralds.

The Children of Aulë are somewhat touchy when it comes to their hair, he has learned. As a matter of fact, they treat it with the same sort of reverence that Elves do (though he has also learned to keep his opinions on such similarities to himself – touchy). It is lovers or kinsmen that they permit near it, and that Celebrimbor wants to be let near is something he barely dares to think about. He is already thought strange for building such an alliance with the Dwarves of Moria; to take one as a lover would no doubt take what little reputation remains to him and turn it to ash.

And yet, he desires. He can't help it. Narvi is as gruff as all Dwarves seem to be, but he is skilled (Celebrimbor has seen his work before – spectacular! And somewhat relieving that there appears to be at least one Dwarf in Arda who knows that curves exist) and he has a sharp wit.

He also has rather a strong accent. Celebrimbor has come to like the sound of his name made guttural and staccato by Khuzdul.

When Narvi looks up at him, he fears that some of what he feels must show on his face, for Narvi stares at him dumbfounded for a moment. But then he smiles, shy and sweet and only a little teasing, and the tension that had been building between them all evening evaporates.

"Tell me what it says?" Narvi suggests, indicating the curling script that will arch above the door.

Celebrimbor leans close, placing his hand gently on Narvi's shoulder and inhaling the rich scent of Narvi's hair. He starts to read – first in Elvish, just for the scowl it will win him, and then in Westron. Narvi doesn't push him away.


	2. Spines and Anters

**AN:** This is an expansion of the fourth snapshot in the previous chapter, starring Bofur and the Elven prison guard during the rebuilding of Dale. And yes, yes it does mean that I can be persuaded to write more of the other bits too. Maybe.

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Elves in Love:

Spines and Antlers

by Evandar

He's not quite sure what to make of the Elf.

There are many Elves milling around Dale. They're helping with the rebuilding as much as the Dwarves are – more, perhaps, since his people are rebuilding Erebor as well. But there is only one Elf in Bofur's mind. He's a tall fellow with high cheekbones and creamy skin and nowhere near enough hair to be attractive (just how Kili used to like them), with brown hair and eyes and a slight penchant for deer. He's bought seven carvings from Bofur now, not making a comment at the hiked up prices or the wary looks, and every time he's looked so delighted by how they move and how each one is slightly different that Bofur can't bring himself to be suspicious anymore.

Instead he spends those transactions trying not to stare at the childlike delight in the Elf's eyes as he makes each doe graze on his palm or swivel her head and ears. He's been lowering the prices too, bringing them back down to what the deer are actually worth – the Elf hasn't commented on that, either.

That, Bofur decides, is why he rather likes him. Well, as much as a Dwarf can like an Elf anyway. (He won't think of Kili and his elf-maid. What happened to her, he wonders.) His Elf – he means ithe/i Elf – isn't all haughty like the ones in Rivendell were. He's a Wood Elf from Thranduil's realm – obviously – but he doesn't sneer or raise his eyebrows or look at Bofur like he's something scraped off his boot. He smiles and laughs and every so often actually compliments – compliments from an Elf! – Bofur's skill. It's nice. It's odd, but nice.

And that's why he's fiddling about with antlers to make a bloody stag for all those does. Seven counts as a herd of sorts, and every herd of deer has to have a buck or else it wouldn't be a herd. That's why he's doing it. Not because he likes the Elf or anything (except he actually might) but because he can't leave a collection incomplete.

There's a small sketch of a plan for a fawn on a scrap of paper by his elbow. He's enough wood to make a couple of those – they'll be spindly enough to prove as much of a challenge as the antlers, and he likes a challenge these days. It keeps his mind off things. Off the bodies and the repayments of gold to Men and Elves and Thorin, King under the Mountain, buried with the Arkenstone on his breast and his nephews by his side.

Bofur knows that he's one of the lucky ones. He's still got his cousin and his brother, and in the spring he'll have his sister-in-law and all his nephews and nieces again. His wounds have healed, and even if he still dreams of fire and smoke and Kili's screams, then that's his business. There's no one sharing his bed for him to waken in the night with his thrashing and flailing.

They have to move one step at a time, Balin has said, on evenings when the remains of the Company have met in taverns to dink and mourn together. They will recover, but slowly. They have to find new hope. New reasons to make them smile.

Bofur doesn't know what to think about the Elf who buys deer from him every week, but he does know that gradually, the Elf is becoming one of those reasons. His smiles are infectious – and his laughter often has the bonus of bringing local children to look at Bofur's stall as well, which earns him a little extra coin to put food on the table. He thinks that one day, maybe sooner than he'd like, he's going to actually end up talking to the Elf. Then they'll see how much a Dwarf can really like an Elf.

…

"He's magnificent," the Elf says, running his fingers over delicate antlers. He's got very long fingers, Bofur thinks. It adds to the slightly stretched look that most Elves have, but it also makes him wonder how nimble they are; if, had the Elf have any skill in carving, he would have had an easier time of creating those damned antlers he's admiring so much.

"He was a challenge," Bofur admits, "but I thought those does of yours would be getting a little lonely."

The Elf looks up at him, wide-eyed. "You made him for me?"

He hadn't thought it was possible to surprise an Elf. They're so old and endlessly graceful and unflappable that he really hadn't thought it was possible. Apparently it is. His Elf looks so startled by the thought that it's almost comical – it would be, if Bofur wasn't already cursing himself for admitting too much.

The smile he's given, when the shock wears off, stops his inner tirade in its tracks. He's never had anyone smile at him like that before. "I'm honoured, Master Dwarf," his Elf says.

"Bofur," he corrects, still half in a daze. He'd thought, what with all the brown, that his Elf was rather plain (for an Elf). That might still be true, but he's stunning when he smiles like that. He's never seen an Elf smile like that before – even Kili's elf-maid had never looked so radiant. "Son of Balur. At your service."

"And I am Elros, son of Ellarfin," his Elf replies. He bows ever so slightly and adds an "at your service?" that's so hesitant that it's endearing. It reminds Bofur of Bilbo in a way (someone else that he's trying not to think about) and how he didn't know the proper responses either at first, and how quickly he began to pick them up when they let him.

Bofur swallows around the sudden lump in his throat and watches as his Elf – Elros – vanishes back into the swirling crowd, leaving two silver pieces in his wake. It's too much, but Bofur can't speak to call him back.

…

All in all, they're lucky that the winter is a mild one. There's a few flurries of snow, especially on the slopes of the mountain, but for the most part it only rains. People can work in the rain, and the stones of Dale rise higher and higher. Elves and Men and Dwarves slog through muddy streets, hoisting stones into place. Plans are made (by Elves) for lush gardens and fields; Dwarves help construct smithies and forges. It's easy to forget the differences between their races when they're all wet to the bone and covered in mud.

He sees Elros more than once, in crowds and in taverns, hair dripping and high cheekbones smeared with wet earth. It's amazing how beautiful Elves can be even when in utter disarray; more beautiful, he thinks, than when they actually try. But that could just be him. For all that an Elf has caught his eye (and he can admit it now, if only to himself) he's still a miner at heart. So down to earth that he's under it half the time.

He sees but never speaks, and though he knows that Elros sees him too once or twice, his Elf returns the favour. They're too preoccupied with things to make time for idle chatter, especially now that it's too wet for Bofur to bother with his stall, and there's too much other work to do besides.

It's all a far cry from what he'd imagined life would be once they won the mountain back, but it's easy to remember how much worse it could have been. (How much worse they almost made it.)

If it wasn't for the Elves, they would all be starving by now. He's not sure what Dain had to bargain away to the Elvenking to make sure they were fed through the winter, but whatever it was has worked. He's glad he's not privy to that sort of decision-making. Every time he sees Balin, whether in passing or in the tavern for their reunions, the old Dwarf looks older and more tired than ever. (Thorin's death hit him harder than most, and there's been times since that Bofur's wondered if Thorin was his One like the rumours said.)

The thing is, he muses over an ale, keeping half an ear on the conversation around him, was that they all expected glory. Even though they half expected to die in dragon-fire as well, they thought there would be glory. Free beer and legendary status. As it turned out, they are legendary, but for stupid reasons. They're the ones who woke the dragon. They're the ones who turned on their allies at the time when they needed them most. They're the ones who went against a dragon and lost (though the Hall of Kings is nicely re-floored in several tonnes of gold for their efforts). They're the ones who, had it not been for the burglar they then scorned, would have starved to death in the mountain they'd travelled so far to reclaim.

Bofur and his kin have escaped back into obscurity. Still commoners and no richer than they were to start save in sorrow. Dori, Nori and Ori have managed the same, though Ori less well because he's still, after all this, Balin's apprentice. Oin's been too valuable in the aftermath of the Battle to have earned any extra grief, but Gloin, Balin and Dwalin have all been in the thick of the politics surrounding Dain's claim on the throne. There's no escape from whispers for them. No pretending to be just another Dwarf.

It shows in all of them.

Still, Gloin's talent for making gold multiply has been useful in repaying the Men and the Elves for not killing them all, so he'll probably get a lordship when all is said and done. Dwalin's got a place in the army (a high place) because no one would dare tell him no to his face. Balin is a seneschal born and more sensible Dwarves know that he can't be blamed for the madness in Durin's line.

It's just that sensible Dwarves are rather thin on the ground when it comes to gold and dragon sickness. That's why Bofur's glad to be who he is – poor – and free to find value in other things. Things like wooden deer and lovely smiles; high cheekbones and creamy skin and not nearly enough facial hair to be attractive.

(Oh Kili, is this what you saw?)

…

By the time there's time and weather good enough to set up his stall again, spring has come and with it the first of the caravans from Ered Luin. The Dwarves that have come all know what awaits them: the news of the Battle and its tragedy was sent by raven several times, just in case the birds couldn't make it through the mountain passes.

Still, they're wide-eyed with hope and happiness at their return to Erebor, and soon they're working with the rest of them. To rebuild and to plant and to reopen the mines again. Bofur manages to escape that task by providing carved goods beyond pretty toys, and so he's managed to change his lot after all. There's fair business in what he does, and it keeps Bifur's hands busy as well.

On the first day of opening, there's two little fawns balanced on spindly wooden legs next to a proud, watchful mother on his countertop. They're half-hidden behind more useful things – bowls and spoons and tankards – so as not to attract too much attention, but when Elros appears as Bofur knows he would, he spots them almost instantly.

(There's no hiding anything from an Elf. Not even Fili managed to keep his weapons from their piercing eyes, and Lord Elrond could see even through Gandalf's riddling.)

His Elf gives a soft cry of delight when he spots them, though, so Bofur manages to push the bitterness away in favour of studying his Elf up close for the first time in months. He's no different than he was before, Bofur thinks, but he notices things now that he didn't used to. Like how there's strands of red and gold in his hair, and how his eyes aren't actually brown at all, but gold and green like sunlight through leaves.

"What do you do with them all?" he asks as he wraps the tiny figures carefully in clean rags to protect them.

"They line my windowsill," Elros replies. "I keep plants there, and they live amongst the leaves and stems." He smiles. "I didn't intend to collect them at first. I was curious about you and your craft – toys seemed such an odd thing to sell in a city destroyed, and you were kind to the children – but then I found beauty in them. I simply didn't know where else to put them."

His long fingers brush over the rest of Bofur's wares, examining the flowers on a bowl that Bifur made (Bofur has no talent for greenery). With his gaze lowered so shyly, his lashes cast long shadows over his cheekbones.

"I've run out of ideas," Bofur tells him, tying the last of the string in place. By looking at the package, he wouldn't have believed that it contained such tiny, lovely figures, but that is something of the point. This way, at least, they'll survive the journey to Mirkwood. "For deer, I mean. Is there anything else you like?"

Elros looks up at him with that surprised expression again, and Bofur resists the urge to tug the flaps of his hat down to hide his sudden blush.

"I like all creatures of the forest, save for spiders," Elros says after a moment. His lips quirk into a smile more wicked than Bofur had thought him capable of. "Surprise me."

Shouldn't be too hard, Bofur thinks, watching Elros leave. He's already managed it twice.

…

Being given free reign like this has stumped him. He'd thought it would be easy, but it isn't. Trying to think about what an Elf would like is hard. They're not a race easy to understand, especially for Dwarves. 'Creatures of the forest' is a silly guideline as well. There's too many options. Would he prefer birds or beasts? Predators or prey? Bofur knows he likes the gracefulness of deer – or, at least, he thinks he does – but he's already carved as many deer as he's able to. What comes next in Elven ideals? Sparrows or squirrels or foxes?

He ends up with a small block of ash in his pocket for a week before finally giving in and carving ihis/i favourite woodland animal. He doesn't make it move; doesn't add anything but the details, and only when it's done does he realise how personal a gift it is.

If Elros was a Dwarf, he'd think Bofur was courting him, what with this making him gifts and showing off his craft.

It shakes him to realise that he is making a gift. He doesn't intend to make Elros pay for this one. It's a surprise; a gesture between near-friends who by all rights should have been enemies. A gift that icould/i have been for courting if Elros hadn't been an Elf. (Might still be one; Bofur doesn't really know what he's doing anymore.)

He polishes and varnishes until the grain is smooth as silk and every line and whorl shines in the candlelight he works by. Bombur gives him a knowing look when he sets it out to dry, and Bofur scowls before joining him in tidying the place up a bit. Bombur's family are due on one of the next caravans, travelling along with Gloin's wife and son – or so the letter brought by the last caravan said – and they need to make sure everything is perfect by then. The house is, blessedly, bigger than their last, but there's no great wealth still. There never will be.

On the last night of Bombur's (relative) freedom, they meet with the rest of the Company again for drinks. Even Balin can't be maudlin this time, not in the face of Bombur's excitement and Gloin's joy. They're treated to tales of Gimli the Great that they've all heard a million times before, but this time they smile at them instead of protest. Any Dwarf with children is counted lucky (Bombur luckier than most with his twelve) and what Erebor needs now – more than anything – is laughter.

"There might be more on the way soon," Bombur announces. "Bofur's met his One."

That creates a stir, and Bofur would have kicked his brother under the table if he hadn't realised that he was, in fact, right. Bombur would know, wouldn't he? What a Dwarf looked like in love. He'd certainly had experience of it with Feyja.

He shrank into his seat and took a swig of ale and tried not to panic at the thought of his One being an Elf. Aye, he liked Elros well enough and found him fair, but love him? Truly? He loved his smiles, and his delight at such a simple thing as Bofur's craft, but love him? He was an Elf!

He was an Elf. Which meant, if Bombur was right, then Bofur could expect to spend his life alone, pining over stolen moments of kindness and carving wooden animals for payments of laughter. He couldn't expect anything else; couldn't let himself hope. All this talk of Gimli had brought to mind a memory of Mirkwood – of an Elven prince with cold blue eyes staring down at Gloin's locket in disgust. "And what is this?" he'd asked. "A goblin mutant?" And that was all Dwarves were to Elves, no matter how many times they made them laugh.

He took a deep swig of his ale and forced a smile to his face. "Early days yet," he said and tapped the side of his nose. He wouldn't tell them now. He doubted he'd tell them ever; an Elf was something they'd never understand.

…

He didn't see Elros approach. He was busy watching a pair of lads convince their mother that she needed to buy them each a toy along with the dishware he was already wrapping for her when the Elf appeared next to them, ostensibly perusing a row of neatly carved tankards. He offered Bofur a smile that – in the wake of the previous night's revelations – left a nervous, sickly fluttering in Bofur's stomach.

When his customers had departed, Elros slipped behind his stall and settled himself on the low stool that Bofur kept there. It brought them close to the same height, giving Bofur a close encounter with his Elf's serene beauty.

Aye, Bombur was right. That still didn't mean anything would come of it.

Once he'd convinced his heart to settle in its proper place again, out of his throat, he offered Elros his warmest smile, and reached into his pocket. "Now you said to surprise you," he said, "so close your eyes."

Elros raises his eyebrows ever so slightly, but obeys, closing his eyes and holding out his hands. For a moment, Bofur has the strongest urge to kiss him, but he resists; he pushes that feeling down even as he closes his fingers around the carving in his pocket and pulls it out. He'd wrapped it in layers of soft, green cloth as soon as the varnish had properly dried and he hasn't been able to look at it again, even though he's been carrying it around ever since.

He leaves the cloth on it when he places it in Elros's hands. If his nephews and nieces are any indication then the unwrapping is the best part. Carefully, he folds long fingers around it, lingering a little longer than perhaps he should, and steps back. For a moment, Elros's eyes stay closed, but then he peeks – cracking one eye open first, and then the other, looking down at the little round bundle set in his palms.

Elros doesn't know that this is a gift. He doesn't know any of the significance it holds – he can't; he's an Elf – but he still treats it as if it's something valuable. It takes him a little while to get through all the layers, but when he does he gives a soft little gasp, his lips parting to reveal even, white teeth. There, cupped in his hands, is a carving of a hedgehog, its face twisted up slightly to inspect him in turn; the lines demarcating each spine ending in little spikes all over its back; a forepaw lifted and curled under its body.

It's one of the best things Bofur's ever carved. Every courting gift should be an example of your best work, so his father said and Bombur as well. It worked for them, that's for sure.

When Elros looks back up at him, his forest-lit eyes are warm and gentle, and his smile the sweetest that Bofur's ever seen. And Bofur thinks, smiling back, that there might just be a chance – the smallest, most precious chance – that it could work for him too.


End file.
